


lead my arms

by lamphouse



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 2000s, Anxiety, Fashion & Couture, M/M, Philosophical Musing, Post-Canon, Rain, Slightly Resolved Tension, Time (Concept), Vignette, in the broadest way possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-28 10:23:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19392166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamphouse/pseuds/lamphouse
Summary: A bout of people watching with Aziraphale at his side was often all it took to right any mildly sullen mood, and the promise of fried noodles was often all it took to lure Aziraphale outside, so there they were.(In which Crowley's subconscious has a panic attack.)





	lead my arms

"...but luckily the only paper he left with was a note with directions to the nearest Waterstone's. Pass me a napkin, would you, dear?"

"Mhm."

"Anyway, tell me about your day," Aziraphale finishes, neatly wiping his mouth and looking at Crowley expectantly, who absentmindedly pauses.

Crowley had spent the rainy day as he usually did: ruining the days of a fair number of commuters with water-based inconveniences (taxi cab mud splashing, puddle slipping, etc).1 As far as wiles go, it's pretty weak, veering more into prank territory than Crowley generally likes to go. A bout of people watching with Aziraphale at his side was often all it took to right any mildly sullen mood, and the promise of fried noodles was often all it took to lure Aziraphale outside, so there they were.

But Aziraphale could've guessed that easily, and in fact, didn't really have to since Crowley had proclaimed those exact plans when he'd left the bookshop that morning. That meant he was really asking about what he'd felt that day rather than what he'd done, which Crowley immediately soured to, because he wasn't looking forward to any psychoanalysis this late at night, and also didn't know himself.

"It was alright," Crowley settles on. His tone leaves no room for further inquiry, hopefully in a way more disinterested than standoffish. He suddenly hopes Aziraphale is in a particularly _un_ -oblivious mood and will take the hint for what it is, a genuine need to not discuss this.

Aziraphale does, silently continuing to eat. It's the little miracles.

Dinner tonight has brought them to a pair of stools at the counter of a decent enough restaurant too busy for the servers to know them. Before them the huge window frames the watery summer evening, but while Aziraphale seems content to watch the people walking by with their array of umbrellas (makeshift and otherwise), Crowley can't help but feel on display behind the glass, like in an opera box without the dignity.

A few feet away the door swings open, the sound of it masked by the general chatter of the restaurant and the wind it lets in. The movement catches Crowley's eye and he watches as a group of young people with sharp haircuts and clothing with artful holes snipped in them. They look ridiculous, easy-going, and cool in a way that feels like a sharp poke between Crowley's ribs.

"Shame they don't have dessert here."

"Yhuh."

"I thought we might stop by that late-night bakery a few blocks from yours."

One of the young people says a short sentence to the others, who burst into laughter. Their sound is like a whole sphere within the ambient noise, not louder or softer than the clink of silverware or Aziraphale's quiet humming to himself or the voices of the other patrons but merely separate and self-contained within the rest. "That sounds nice."

"Are you quite alright?"

They've ensnared a waiter and crammed themselves along one side of the table in order for him to play cameraman. A handful of different colored digital cameras dangle from his wrist as he takes photo after photo, supposedly expensive metal clattering, the whole group laughing. One brandishes a camera phone, then another, and just like that those slim, shiny cameras are already obsolete.

"Crowley."

Aziraphale gives him a patient look, one of the half dozen he keeps in reserve for when Crowley does something bordering on too much. This one in particular is the kind nearest pity, which makes Crowley madder, but not madder, not really, not at Aziraphale, not even at himself. Just at nothing. Time maybe, the passage thereof. Not anything Crowley can do something about, and so something he's decided to lock up and bury rather than dwell on.

"I'm not being morose," Crowley says in answer to whatever challenge/question/offer that look holds. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like nothing, dear."

Light flashes on one of Aziraphale's rings as he sets his napkin down, the one Crowley had left discreetly in the shop for him as apology/thanks for the Long Napteenth. That hadn't changed; Aziraphale took such good care of his possessions one would almost think it a miracle were one not to know any better (as most are when it comes to Aziraphale).

The sudden spark of memory gives Crowley an idea (or, rather, two, but the second is unavoidably morose, so he ignores it).

In a (hopefully) more conversational tone he adds, "Turtlenecks might be coming back in style."2

Forgetting to forgive and forget, Aziraphale frowns at Crowley, only a mouthful of noodles keeping him from going into a full disproving glare.

"Honestly, it was one time." Aziraphale wipes his mouth with pointed politeness. "It's not as though you've never had any less than stellar exploratory fashion choices yourself," he adds, thinking of the two years Crowley had tried to fit in with a crowd of particularly rakish teddy boys.

Crowley waves a hand dismissively. "That's different. At least I only try looks I _know_ will suit me. Thin turtlenecks in shades of brown suit no one, angel, even you must know that."

"Well, yes." Aziraphale flushes delightfully and Crowley smiles despite his mood. "In my defense, I did think better of it rather quickly."

"And so the Aziraphale was returned to his natural state of being." Crowley's tone veers into 'under his breath' territory to add, "Better the angel you know," and, louder without looking, "oh, don't roll your eyes at me."

"Pot, kettle," Aziraphale says simply, knowingly.

While a single glance is enough to tell the average passerby that Aziraphale is a creature of habit, fewer would clock Crowley as the same. Those who do see through the thin sheen of "trying too hard" (usually Aziraphale and the not-all-that-occasional human) would say that Crowley's style relies on pieces a department store salesman would describe as "timeless," and upon actually talking to him it was easy enough to see that his "cool" is carefully crafted to allow for as little adaptation as possible. Certainly he seems positively cutting edge in comparison with the angel, but truth be told he liked his things and resented change when it didn't suit him.

All of a sudden it's irritating, though, like a shirt that's dried on your back after getting caught in the rain or shoes that haven't been broken in properly, which is stupid because it's Crowley's whole body, and if it hasn't been broken in by now when will it ever be?

"It's just—" Crowley cuts himself off to drink. "The world's so damn _fast_ nowadays, angel. I spend ages on timing B-movie marathons so exhausted coders get the idea to become some heroic hacker, I needle them in resenting their bosses to the extreme and get them put on major projects, all to get back doors into every major bank, government, airline system, and then they go and rewrite the whole thing before I can come up with any good ideas of what to do with them."

By the end of his spiel Crowley knows he's making it a bigger deal than it really is, his gestures expansive and voice only not verging on shouting because of the ambient chatter, but he can't help it. Something's caught up with him and it's crawling up his neck, something like the feeling of being behind schedule for something vaguely and incredibly important mixed with dread at the consequence of his tardiness, both wanting to get wherever there is and stay far away all at once. It's not an exact feeling, mind, but it's distantly familiar, and— Right. That's it. The feeling of holding together an internal combustion engine and trying not to think about how he's driving into the end of the world. Melodramatic, but not wholly incorrect.

Aziraphale is still looking at him strangely, albeit with a different flavor. "And this is why you're bringing turtlenecks back in fashion? Because you hate the passing of time?"

"No," Crowley shoots back halfheartedly, "because you need poking fun at every so often or you get complacent."

That doesn't even merit a response, in part because Crowley so obviously doesn't mean it, but moreso because Aziraphale is not as dotty as he looks and catches on quite quickly now when the subtext of a conversation is driven by Crowley's perpetual anxiety.

"Well I think you look stylish, darling," Aziraphale says after a moment, simple, to hte point, and only slightly tasting of pity.

The existential worry wanes long enough for Crowley to softly thank him, for Aziraphale to squeeze his hand, for them to finish eating in companionable quiet. It's not entirely gone, but waned enough to get their coats on.

Aziraphale holds open the door for an entering couple as Crowley struggles to open their umbrella. It's only misting out, rain so fine that it doesn't fall as much as suddenly accumulating right when you've wiped off your glasses. But weather is temperamental and always changes based on one's expectation of the opposite being true, so it's best to be safe, Aziraphale had said when Crowley had picked him up, the understanding that a supernatural being may make such a localized change subconsciously with their very mood.

As that exact subtext occurs to Crowley, the umbrella pops open and the rain begins to fall more earnestly. The hand holding the umbrella jerks up instinctively to cover him, then (again on mere reflex) over to Aziraphale.

"Thank you, my dear," the angel says, his eyes steady on Crowley's as he offers his arm. "Home then?"

With only a small amount of juggling, Crowley accepts the offer, his other hand folded over to hold the umbrella between them. The umbrella is hardly wide enough for the two of them side by side, but turned in toward each other like this, the space is more than enough.

When Aziraphale leans up to kiss him on the cheek before they head off,3 Crowley knows his skin is colder than it should be, like a ceramic mug full of cool water. It's been an unfortunate side effect of being Crowley for forever, but Aziraphale doesn't seem to mind. Better, he doesn't mind, and Crowley knows this, just as he knows their night will end with him draped over the back of an old arm chair listening to Aziraphale's steady page turning. That, too, never changes.

* * *

1 Technically it may be that the alternative is more frequent (hanging around, making tea and reading over Aziraphale's shoulder), but for the sake of his job, pretend otherwise.

2 The fast-paced world of fashion was his latest bailiwick; between the caffeine, eating disorders, and petty feuds, it was like trying to fit one more cup of water in an already stuffed pressure cooker, but Crowley had gotten a little restless post-Armageddorwaitnevermind and he honestly welcomed the challenge. Already greasy bangs and the awkward pre-mullet length were taking off, a look that in addition to rapidly becoming the worst kind of dated, Crowley knew, would have the added benefit of the increase in irritability born of incurable forehead acne. (Turtlenecks, incidentally, had been Aziraphale's one dalliance with post-mid-century fashion. It was a briefly lived attempt lasting a single week, its last few hours spent in Crowley's hysterical company.)

3 In another world he takes Crowley's glasses and wipes them off with a handkerchief; in yet another, he merely covers the hand on his arm with his own and squeezes. Across the possibilities, however, they share a common theme, which is that they are all so routinely loving that they are done without words. For a second Crowley knows this to be totally true, and in all worlds his heart goes still in the following second.

**Author's Note:**

> genuinely no clue what this is! but I'm loathe to scrap things and rewatching project runway reminded me of how obsessed I was with the early/mid 2000s fashion scene, so here we are, the speed of modern life, etc. this was uncomfortable to write, but I suppose its about discomfort, so that's alright I guess. will certainly edit lightly come morning! (I'm also working on a self-indulgent 30s ineffable wives thing and smth about crowley during Creation so look out for those)
> 
> I also went slightly off the rails looking at vintage jewelry til 3 am the other night so [this](http://eriebasin.com/1891-sapphire-ring.html) is aziraphale's ring. the best is yet to be! he also has [this](http://eriebasin.com/early-1900s-diamond-snake-ring.html) bc he thinks he's clever and also it's very easy to embarrass crowley, send tweet.
> 
> title from "[don't swallow the cap](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFnA-8H-5lo)" by the national, which I listened too a lot thinking abt a&c while writing this (I mean, I also listened to "people will say we're in love" from oklahoma so, like, its no guarantee of intended tone)
> 
> tumblr @[lamphous](http://lamphous.tumblr.com/)


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